


deathberry (remix azul)

by BlackJacketsandPens



Series: packbonding [5]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Gen, featuring me giving in and giving it a kubo-esque title, i had a feeling this was going to be long af and i was right, the Ichigo Part of the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 20:45:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12661095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: Grimmjow meets the boy with the orange hair again, and then again -- and that meeting is going to change everything.Or, how Ichigo Kurosaki affects everyone he meets, especially a certain lonely panther king.





	deathberry (remix azul)

If Grimmjow had thought he’d hated the orange-haired boy before, then he hadn’t realized how much he’d hate him after their second encounter a month later.

As if he hadn’t been humiliated enough, Aizen had all but _ordered_ him to go along with the others back to Karakura. Ulquiorra didn’t even linger, off to do something else while Grimmjow was stuck with that idiot Yammy, who’d lost _his_ fucking arm and gotten to have it stuck back on, and-- even fucking worse-- his _replacement_. That skinny little jackass with his smug smile, who kept calling him _‘former Sexta’_ and mocking his missing arm the same way he had the entire fucking month since that night. He was relegated to a pet, a tagalong, less important even than that stupid vacant new kid who seemed to have absolutely nothing in his head, not even the ability to talk.

He was angry, he was sore and bitter and humiliated and he wanted -- he _needed_ \-- someone to take it out on. They hadn’t even stopped him when he left; he didn’t give a shit about any of those shinigami that had met them. There was only one person he wanted to see. One person he wanted to fight. Only seeing that orange-haired boy crushed and bloody beneath him would fill the emptiness in his chest, the sucking, hollow void that had only seemed to get larger and more distracting in the past month.

He was almost grateful to find him almost immediately, the dumb kid heading straight for him -- did he want a rematch just as bad? Considering he’d been demanding they finish...probably. _Good._ If the fuck wanted to finish the fight so bad, they would. See how much he appreciated it when he ripped the kid’s throat right out. He’d be happy to oblige.

The kid even went and used his bankai right off the bat, too, a hell of a difference from having to beat it out of him. If Grimmjow weren’t so busy nearly buzzing with the anticipation of ripping that stupid look off the kid’s face, he might’ve been impressed.

He was taken aback when the kid paused, though, something in his eyes changing to something Grimmjow didn’t have a name for. Asked him about his arm as if it mattered what happened. As if he didn’t fucking _know_. It was his fault, this stupid little fuck’s goddamn fault that he’d lost it all and here he was asking what happened like he gave a damn.

Like fuck he was going to tell him, though. It didn’t matter. That fucking _look_ , like he felt bad, like he’d-- like he’d what, like he wouldn’t fucking fight him if he knew? Like he’d be angry on his behalf? And even when he fucking lied, the kid’s _eyes_...the kid’s eyes said they saw right through him and accepted the lie to save his pride.

Oh, that was it. That was fucking _it_.

He was going to rip those eyes out of this boy’s head if it was the last thing he fucking did. Those awful eyes, the ones that looked right through him and saw something...something Grimmjow didn’t understand and didn’t want to.

* * *

By the time it was over, by the time Ulquiorra had dragged him burned and bloody through the Garganta, Grimmjow was dead certain that the only thing that would ever satisfy him again was ripping the orange-haired boy apart.

The first thing that fucking brat had done was pull out a fucking _Hollow mask_. He didn’t know shinigami could do that, he hadn’t even imagined, couldn’t even conceive of that ever _happening_ \-- and here the kid was doing just that. Arrancar were one thing, but for shinigami to use the power of the things they hated and destroyed just for existing…

Even if the mask shattered after barely a quarter of a minute, Grimmjow was-- he was off-guard. Not off-guard enough to be unable to pound the boy into the ground a few times in exchange for all the blood he’d drawn -- confident again that he had the kid now that he had used up all his strength on that bullshit Hollow mask -- but more than off-guard enough to let that little bitch he’d put a hole through get a shot in (how’d she _survive?_ she had a hole through her!).

And worse yet, he was so distracted by that little bitch’s attack that some other fuck turned up, some other fuck with a Hollow mask and Zanpakutō, some fuck who could use _cero_.

He couldn’t even touch that grinning bastard. He couldn’t even-- he’d lost. Even if he’d survived, Ulquiorra dragging him away, he’d lost and he knew it and that just festered along with everything else he’d lost until the only thing he could see when he closed his eyes was that boy’s face. His face, that mask, those _eyes_.

And he’d rip those things out of his head the next time he saw them looking at him like that.

He could at least take some small fragment of petty, bitter joy in that apparently Yammy and Luppi got their asses handed to them, too. Fuck them, then. At least he wasn’t the only one humiliated this time.

He spent the next several hours sulking in the shower, far past the time for all the hot water to run out and leaving him sitting in the cold, letting it run down his face as he stared down at the scar on his chest. The fight that day hadn’t left any real marks -- nothing that lasted, nothing that would linger. That was both a blessing and a curse, honestly. He’d heal fast, but...he’d always been almost envious of the ability to keep a scar. A reminder of a fight, a fight you survived and an enemy you killed. Memories, experiences, marked on your skin so you wouldn’t lose them. For something like a Hollow, a soul that had lost everything it had ever once been and a creature that was always in danger of losing everything again...the concept of memories leaving something permanent was something that had always attracted him.

Except now. Now that he had one, huge and visible, right down the center of his chest where anyone and everyone could see it -- and they would, because he refused to close his shirt, hated the feel of it -- a constant reminder of the night in which he’d lost everything, a reminder of that boy’s existence...he wasn’t sure he liked the idea anymore. All it did was piss him off, and he couldn’t get rid of it. It would be there forever, a promise that they’d meet again and finish their fight.

Though forever suddenly seemed a lot less like a hard limit when they’d been called for an Espada’s meeting. He was ordered to attend for some reason -- he wasn’t one of them anymore and the fact that he was dragged along anyway was just digging the knife deeper -- and when he got there, he paused. There was a human girl there, small and lost-looking in the middle of this huge white room, her hair and clothes making her seem so much more colorful and alive than any of them.

He had to admit he felt sorry for her -- he watched her nearly fold in on herself and collapse when Aizen directed his attention to her. Cruel, honestly. Fucking asshole flaunting his power like that. What the was the point in pressing that awful heavy reiatsu onto a skinny little human when she was already obviously scared? He didn’t see any point in playing with the food. She was weak and small, and she probably knew that. Why drive it home like that except for a nasty way of dominance? Then again, that was what Aizen did. Show his dominance over all of them, every day, in every rule and gesture and every shitty vague smile.

Maybe he just pitied the weak little girl because he chafed at his own collar so much.

Or maybe it was out of spite, since Luppi seemed to hate her on principle. They were all still bandaged up, those of them that had gone to Karakura, though most of their wounds were all but healed. It was a little satisfying to see them on his smug little replacement, though. Jackass deserved it.

And then Aizen told the girl to fix his arm.

Everyone reacted at that, even Grimmjow himself -- what the fuck? How the fuck did he expect her to do that?! Was he trying to set her up for failure, was this some kind of sick fucking joke? No one could make an entire arm out of thin air! There was no way anyone could-- it was-- it was a cruel joke; even if she could heal, she couldn’t do something like that!

Even as Luppi cackled, clearly overjoyed at the idea that she’d fail and he’d get to kill her, Grimmjow turned to watch her approach him, mouth opening to tell her to fuck off -- he’d rather her not even try then try and fail and let Aizen play this sick game with both of them -- and she said something, the blue things in her hair lit up, and an orange cocoon of light appeared where his arm once was. He could feel it on his shoulder, somehow soft and warm and gentle, the wisps of her reiatsu like nothing he’d ever felt before…

And -- painlessly, right before his eyes, like he was watching it happen to someone else, his arm started to reappear. It was ridiculously surreal, and part of him still couldn’t believe it was happening. Even as he watched bone and muscle and flesh restore themselves from out of his torn sleeve, watched elbow reappear and then wrist and hand and fingers, even if he felt that awful fuzzy feeling dance along his new arm as sensation returned to it -- he almost couldn’t believe it was real.

But it was. It was real. His arm was whole again. He could barely hear Luppi’s shrieking from nearby or any of the other shocked murmurs from the Espada -- all his attention was on the arm, flexing it experimentally and watching in amazement as it responded like nothing had ever happened. He barely heard Aizen’s explanation of what the girl had done, and he didn’t care. Why did it matter how she did it? She’d remade his arm. The arm he thought gone forever, the arm that had been destroyed and took with it his rank and place in the--

 _Oh_.

He called the girl over, and she jolted like a prey animal, swallowing and walking towards him. There was a brief moment where he considered asking her to remove the scar on his chest, but no -- no. he needed it, even if he hated it. He needed that reminder, and he’d hang onto it for as long as it took to fulfill that promise. But there was something else...the burn on his back. He directed her to it and she nodded, somehow looking relieved, stepping around him. Luppi was still shrieking, but this time he focused on it -- he wouldn’t be shrieking for much longer.

As soon as the girl was in view again -- that meant she was done -- he whipped around and drove his hand right through the smug little fuck’s chest. No one stopped him. They knew what he wanted, what he’d done. Knew he was stronger than the little bitch on the floor. Knew he deserved the six on his back, that he was the _real_ Sexta and always would be.

A cero took care of the rest of that problem, and fuck, that felt good. He was _back_. He was strong again, he had taken his rank back in blood and he would never, never let himself be humiliated like that again.

_Never._

* * *

It wasn’t long -- no, it was almost immediately after -- that he felt the tremor in the air, and it wasn’t much longer after that that his suspicions were confirmed in a meeting.

The boy was here. He’d come to Hueco Mundo.

The rest of whatever Aizen had to say didn’t fucking matter. What could he possibly need to tell him after all this? They were here for the girl. They were here to fight. That’s all that he needed to know. Anything else was meaningless.

And now he had a name for the face. Ichigo Kurosaki...that was the name of the boy he was going to kill.

He stood sharply, kicking his chair back and turning to leave. He could hear Aaroniero let out a panicked squeak from the other end of the table, but he ignored it. He could ignore Tōsen’s comments, too; why was he throwing afit about it, anyway? Didn’t Aizen want them dead? He’d be doing something the smug bastard actually wanted for once, and he said as much. See, he could pretend to be respectful.

But what he couldn’t ignore was Aizen himself. That heavy, thick reiatsu slamming him to the ground hard enough that he almost heard his kneecaps crack. His cheeks burned and he hated this, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t get up. The weight of his reiatsu smothered him like a thick blanket and he wanted to scream. He settled for glaring at his back viciously and swearing all the way back to his quarters. Like he was going to fucking _wait for them_. Sit quietly and let them come? Don’t be frightened? Fuck that. Fuck Aizen.

He was going to kill Ichigo Kurosaki. That simple fact was more important to him than anything else that existed. He was going to kill him for everything he’d caused, everything he’d done, for that look in his eyes that Grimmjow couldn’t stand. He was going to kill him if it was the last thing he did. He would kill him and stand tall again.

* * *

He was halfway to where Kurosaki was when he felt a wall of reiatsu slam into him like a brick, not heavy like Aizen’s but still dark, still thick like the sky above Hueco Mundo -- the real sky, starless and black. _Ulquiorra_. He screeched to a halt and felt out for Kurosaki’s reiatsu...oh. Oh no. _No_.

That son of a bitch! In the time it took Grimmjow to shake off the disorientation that came with Aizen’s punishments, Ulquiorra had stolen his fucking fight. He could barely feel Kurosaki! He was-- he was dying? Was he dying? No. No, that wasn’t happening. He needed that fight, he needed it like he’d never needed anything else before in his life. He didn’t know why -- just that he wanted to tear this motherfucker apart and force him to stop looking at him like he had that day.

And if he died, he-- he couldn’t-- the thought of not getting this fight made him feel almost physically ill. He _needed_ this fight. If Kurosaki died, then…

Wait. The girl! The girl had made his arm again, the girl could remake entire body parts! _She_ could fix Kurosaki!

He turned around and forced his sonido to the limit, searching out that soft, gentle reiatsu he’d felt earlier and skidding to a halt seconds later in front of the girl’s room. There were two others in there and he could smell blood, and without really even thinking about it, he blew the wall open.

He didn’t know the names of those girls, Aizen’s personal bitches, but one of them had the girl’s hair in her fist and her hand around the girl’s throat, and the other was standing there like an idiot, gaping at him. The girl looked like shit -- had they been…fuck, he wouldn’t put it past them. Two dumb bitches sneaking in to have a little fun with the weak human. Disgusting. They didn’t even deserve real acknowledgement, and after they were smears on the floor -- the stupid bitch with pigtails thought she could use Aizen as a threat, as if he’d care -- he turned to the girl.

She was staring up at him through her bloodied, bruised face, sitting there on the floor in shock. She asked him why, and for a long moment he had no answer. Why, indeed? Because picking on weak people who couldn’t fight back disgusted him? Because he needed her? Because because she’d given him his arm back? He only said that last one, though, and was actually surprised he’d said anything at all. Well, she looked so pathetic.

But that was about all he felt like sparing for her -- she needed to do something for him, now, and he made almost to throw her over his shoulder before she asked him to stop. Her firmness startled him enough to make him oblige, and he stood there in amazed shock as she brought those two bitches back to life. He’d blown the blonde one clear in two! But here she was, and she’d...she’d raised the dead.

She’d raised the dead and healed people who had beat the shit out of her. He couldn’t-- why had she-- what _was_ she? Her and Kurosaki, both with those same eyes when they turned them on their enemies. _Fuck_.

His annoyance had him throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her to Kurosaki. She’d wailed a little but set about fixing him, of course, and he’d sat down to wait. He wasn’t sure why the girl fascinated him -- or at least her powers did. The ability to raise the dead...what else could it do? And it was in the hands of this tiny little girl who was willing to save people who hated her. It was...was that what humans were? It made no damn sense.

And Kurosaki…Ulquiorra had really done a number on him. That son of a _bitch_. Why did he do that? He should know Kurosaki was his...or that he was Kurosaki’s. The shinigami had _marked_ him. Ulquiorra had never even really fucking met the guy. Why did he butt in? What the fuck was the game he was playing? Did he do it to spite Grimmjow in particular? Fucking hell...all he could do for now, though, was watch his wounds slowly seal themselves up beneath the girl’s warm glow. (If only the weird tiny little Arrancar would _shut the fuck up_.)

She’d fix him up -- and with any luck, quickly, before Ulquiorra turned back up -- and then he’d get his fight. Man to man, both of them at the strongest they could ever be. He had his arm back, and Kurosaki had a handle on whatever power gave him that Hollow mask. They would fight, they had to fight. He _needed_ this fight.

And not even the fucking Cuarta was going to stop him from having it.

* * *

The next few hours were almost a blur in his memory, single incidents crushed together into one long stream of events, too fast for him to ever pull them apart completely.

Ulquiorra showing up, trying to stop his fight. The Caja Negación -- he’d never wanted to use that thing, the _thought_ of being closed up in a dark little box enough to send him into a panic even if it would be used on someone else, but it was the only thing to keep him away. The girl refusing to heal Kurosaki to protect him from the fight he wanted. Kurosaki himself, with those damned soft _eyes_ , telling the girl to heal the arm Ulquiorra had damaged, only pretending to save his pride by asking him if he wanted it as an excuse.

The girl...Kurosaki...what _were_ they?

The girl had known he could kill her. She’d seen him kill Luppi, kill those two bitch girls. He could have snapped her neck like a twig. But still she said no. She would have died for Kurosaki’s safety, and she hadn’t been afraid. Her eyes had been firm and calm and fearless.

And Kurosaki...he could see it in his face, in the swing of his sword. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying this, fighting with everything they had, had needed this fight just as much as Grimmjow. But he wouldn’t say it. He wouldn’t admit it. He refused to admit it, and that confused the hell out of him. Why wouldn’t just say it? Why wouldn’t he just admit that he’d wanted this fight just as much as Grimmjow? He had! He had been wanting to finish this since that first night when he’d given him that scar, since he’d put a hole through that girl! Why was he being so stubborn about it? Why couldn’t he just fucking admit that this had been a month in the making, this fight, and he had needed it like nothing else ever before?

….Was it that girl? Had something changed when Ulquiorra had taken her?

He tested it, half-sure of the answer already, and it was confirmed when Kurosaki tanked the hit of a Gran Rey Cero full-blast just so the girl wouldn’t get hit. So that was it. That was-- why? Why?! Why was he willing to die for her? Why was she so willing to do the same for him? Why were they-- she was weak! She was weaker than Kurosaki by far, but she still tried to-- he still--

None of it made sense. Or maybe it was just that he didn’t want it to.

He didn’t want it to make sense when Kurosaki won. When he won because the girl told him to. The girl, begging him to stay safe, and then his reiatsu had rose like an explosion and then he was bleeding onto the sand. How was that possible? How could anyone else be responsible for your strength? How could it--

Why was he stronger? Why did Kurosaki keep outpacing him? Why? Why?

Why was he looking at him with those eyes, warm and soft like that girl’s reiatsu? Those damn eyes. Those horrible fucking eyes that refused to look at him like a real enemy. Why? He had-- he was a Hollow, regardless of anything else! He was a monster, empty and hungry, a beast that was made of fear and blood and the souls of anyone it consumed. There was no reason to look at him like that.

There was no reason to catch him almost gently before he fell, no reason to stop him from drawing his sword again with a hand gentle over his. No reason to speak to him softly, calmly, like he was talking to someone he cared about. No reason to say those things to him.

No reason to _protect_ him. He was an enemy. Nnoitra was an enemy. Why should he care if an enemy was cut down by another? But no. No, Kurosaki defended him. That was the last thing he saw, Kurosaki raising his blade to stand between him and Nnoitra while his blood stained the sand.

Then his vision went dark, and by the time he awoke, everything was over.

* * *

By the time he had woken, everyone was gone. Everything was over. Harribel had found him, nursing his pride amid the bloody sand and had told him so. Aizen was gone. Tōsen was dead, Gin was dead. Harribel was the only other Espada that survived. It was over.

She’d offered to let him stay with them -- out of some strange misplaced camaraderie, no doubt -- but he refused, disappearing even as her three Fracciones shouted behind him. He wouldn’t-- he couldn’t. No more pity, no more kind eyes.

But he couldn’t get it out of his head. He hid out for a while while the wound Nnoitra gave him healed, his arm in no shape to function properly for months, and every time he closed his eyes he could see the same pair of brown ones. He could hear those words, echoing, the last words Kurosaki had spoken to him.

_I don’t know about being a king, or whatever, but...just beating up everyone who annoys you and becoming a king with no one left to rule...where’s the fun in that?_

He didn’t know anymore.

He had never thought about it. He hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t felt like thinking about anything like that was necessary. He was a Hollow. That’s what he did -- fought. Destroyed. Cut and slashed and broke his way through anyone in front of him until there was no one left. It’s what Hollows were made for, the only thing they were made for.

But...he’d had his pack. They’d been at his back for as long as he could remember, and in cutting through his enemies...somewhere along the way he’d lost them. And that had _hurt_. He’d blamed Kurosaki for it, of course, because-- no. If he were honest, it was because he hadn’t wanted to blame himself. Because it was _easier_ to just heap it all on the boy who’d scarred him, the boy whose mark he’d never get rid of now, even if he wanted to (and he no longer wanted to, not even a little).

It wasn’t just a reminder of his loss anymore, wasn’t just a promise to rip Kurosaki apart. Every time he thought about it, it was a reminder of what the boy said, of what he’d done. Of the fact that Ichigo Kurosaki had saved his life, the fact that...there were some things Grimmjow didn’t know. Things he hadn’t bothered to learned, never had the chance to or simply ignored that chance when it was there until it was gone.

Like the reason why Kurosaki was stronger than him, was always stronger than him when it came down to the edge. It wasn’t until that last fight that he thought he’d figured it out, that fight and Kurosaki’s words. Kurosaki had some kind of reason to fight, something behind his blade besides the burning instinct to do battle that Grimmjow lived by. That reason...the girl? The big guy? The one with glasses? The other shinigami girl? All of them? How could people be his reasons? Did he really fight to stand in front of others, fight so that they wouldn’t be hurt?

And isn’t that part of what he’d done for his pack? They’d joined him to follow him, so that he would lead them to strength, and in return...and even when they’d given up, they’d offered him themselves so that he would keep going, they’d stood behind him when they’d become Arrancar. They’d stood there no matter what happened, and he’d-- hadn’t he fought for them? When they’d been in danger, hadn’t he come to get them? Hadn’t he insisted they were his, and they wouldn’t-- no one was allowed to take what was his?

Was that the same? Was it the same as Kurosaki? But if it was the same, then why was he still weaker than him? Why was it that Kurosaki was stronger? He claimed that even when he wanted to fight, even when he wanted to win, that he won for the people behind him.

But they weren’t just _behind_ him, were they? They were _beside_ him. They did the same for him, fought for him like Kurosaki fought for them. That’s why they’d come to Las Noches together.

Was that it, then? Was that the difference? Where his pack stood? Was that why he had looked at him with those awful, gentle eyes, like he was an equal? Did Kurosaki really look at everyone the same, no matter who they were? Did that make the difference?

He didn’t know the answers to any of these questions, even though they haunted him as he wandered the sand alone. His wounds had healed, save for the one that had almost cost him his arm again. The scar Nnoitra gave him was still there, that one now a reminder of how easy death could come to anyone.

He was healed, but now he was alone. There was no one to fight, no one to even talk to, no one to _see_ , and Grimmjow remembered what fear was like. He was free, the collar shattered, but he was alone, and loneliness proved a far greater poison than being caged. But pride wouldn’t let him go crawling back to Harribel just to be able to hear someone’s voice again. So he wandered, alone, lost in all his thoughts and trying to find an answer to Kurosaki’s damned question.

And then the Quincy came.

Their reiatsu was cold and clean and bright like white fire, and they burned through Hueco Mundo like a tide of death. He began to see more Arrancar, but only because they were fleeing. Scared, horrified, panicked, they ran from the Quincies.

It wasn’t a fight, it wasn’t a war, it wasn’t even fair. If you surrendered, you died. If you fought, you died. If you ran, you died. It was slaughter, genocide, the absolute destruction of the last thing Grimmjow had -- his home, however loosely that word was used.

He had no time to think about questions and answers anymore -- if these Quincies thought they could destroy the world of the Hollows, they were sadly mistaken. If they thought there would be only weaklings and cowards among the Arrancar, they hadn’t met him.

The first time he was thanked, he almost thought he’d hallucinated it -- why would anyone thank him? It took him a minute to realized he hadn’t just killed a unit of Quincy, he’d saved the Arrancar they’d been about to kill. He’d...saved someone’s life. He’d _protected_ someone. Was that what he was doing? Fighting...to protect his home? To protect Hueco Mundo?

Did this-- was this an answer? Was this the answer he’d been looking for? The answer to why Kurosaki was stronger, to the question he’d asked him all those months ago (he didn’t know how many)?

He didn’t know. And...maybe he’d care eventually, but right now...right now he was fighting. When he was fighting, at least, he didn’t need to think too hard about serious things. Right now he could lose himself in battle and forget about Kurosaki and questions and reasons to fight, forget to wonder if this was any different from before.

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WAS A MONSTER AND I KNEW IT WOULD BE ONE BECAUSE GRIMMJOW AND ICHIGO IS PROBABLY THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ABOUT THIS FIC SERIES BUT WOW.
> 
> Seriously, though, it is always my favorite thing to write and explore how Grimmjow sees and feels about Ichigo (and Orihime to a lesser extent), and his final fight with Ichigo is probably my #1 favorite in the series. That last line that Ichigo says to him...god. Ugh. Just...so good. 
> 
> Ichigo has a habit of changing the lives of everyone he connects with, doesn't he? Even Grimmjow. Leaving him with all those questions, leaving him to think about everything he said and did...seventeen months is a long time to wait (but not as long as 337 chapters, Kubo, fuck you), after all, and with the Quincy attacking. Well.
> 
> Though again he surprised me -- I didn't expect his musing on his scars, or his thoughts about Orihime. Full of surprises, this cat is.
> 
> (Also -- the last two fics had basically no dialogue, I know, but the last one will!)


End file.
